


Firsts

by ThornWild



Series: The Jacob and Marcus Tales [2]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Coming of Age, First Time, Growing Up, M/M, Parents, School, Swearing, creative swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob doesn't really like Oliver, but somehow he seems to be his first for almost everything. Marcus hates his life, and his dad, and pretty much everything in his dreary industrial town, but makes a go at trying out new things anyway. Two short stories set before The Fucking Tetralogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jacob

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted to [GayAuthors.Org](http://www.gayauthors.org). Betaed by [Sasha Distan](http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/user/18065-sasha-distan/).

Two things happen when Jacob enters secondary school. One is that he makes friends with Oliver, the scrawny, curly-haired, ginger, blue-eyed, specky little shit he always used to ignore in favour of the bigger, stronger boys who all seem to have been sent to independent schools rather than the local comprehensive. The other is that, because this _is_ the local comprehensive, and girls aren’t properly cool unless they’ve had at least one fucking abortion by the age of fifteen, they start all the pupils on sexual education early.

About a month into the first term, a teacher sits them down and shows them videos about sexual intercourse, STIs, proper condom use and even one about sexual orientation, just so no one’s left behind. All the videos meet with disgusted noises, but the sexual orientation one is met with wild protests from some of the dumber bullies in the class. 

Jacob sits calmly through them all. He finds human sexuality fascinating in its own way, though he honestly doesn’t really get the point of any of it. He notes, however, that Oliver is sitting glued to his seat, wide-eyed and slightly red-faced, lips gently parted, while the anatomy of a penis is described and explained in detail on the screen.

Oliver and Jacob have an arrangement. Oliver nicks cigarettes from his dad and gives to Jacob (whose parents both quit smoking when he got asthma, and the irony there is simply astounding in Jacob’s opinion), and Jacob makes sure Oliver doesn’t get his glasses smashed or his head shoved down a toilet. At the tender age of twelve, Jacob is a pint-sized, psychotic fighting machine, stronger than he looks and constantly getting into trouble. The older boys could easily take him, but as with most bullies, they don’t see that it’s worth it to try and bully someone who fights back, with both blunt fists and sharp tongue. 

It’s almost December when Oliver is finally confident enough in their friendship to one day, while Jacob is smoking a fag behind the school, ask for his help.

‘Jacob?’

‘Mhm?’ Jacob cocks his head to one side. Oliver looks very nervous, fidgeting where he stands, eyes cast down. ‘Spit it out, then,’ Jacob tells him impatiently.

‘I’ve been thinking and I—I think I might be . . .’ Oliver trails off, scratching his head and frowning, shifting his weight back and forth between his left and his right foot. He’s blushing furiously.

‘Yeah?’ Jacob prompts.

‘I think I might be gay,’ Oliver blurts, looking suddenly terrified. ‘I—I mean—’

‘All right,’ says Jacob simply. ‘So?’

Oliver blinks a couple of times. Then he smiles uncertainly. ‘That doesn’t . . . You don’t think that’s, like, weird? Or . . .’

‘No.’ Jacob shrugs and drops the end of his cigarette on the ground, stomping it out with his foot. He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at Oliver. ‘Don’t really get why you’re telling me, though.’

‘I just . . . I dunno, it’s just that, I’m not really sure. I think I might be, but I don’t know how I’d know, and . . . Can you help me find out?’

Jacob considers this for a moment. He’s not really sure what he can do to help, but in the end he shrugs and says, ‘Sure.’

Oliver’s smile is genuine and full of gratitude, and if Jacob was another kind of boy he might have found it sweet or endearing. As it is he just smiles back as best he can.

‘Can I . . . Do you think I could try and kiss you?’ Oliver asks tentatively.

‘No,’ says Jacob at once. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not really into that.’

Oliver looks disappointed and a little embarrassed, face red again. ‘Oh,’ he says in a tiny voice.

‘But don’t worry,’ Jacob assures him, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll find a way to help you figure this out, yeah? I’ll do some research. I said I’d help you.’

Oliver smiles. He’s taller than Jacob, which isn’t a massive feat, but he’s always seemed smaller. ‘Okay. Thanks, Jacob.’

* * *

It’s lucky that Jacob pays attention in computer class. When he gets home that day, and finds that he is home alone, he turns on his mother’s PC and ventures out onto the Internet. His search engine prowess is unmatched among his peers, but this particular challenge proves difficult, even for him. The first thing he learns is that the Internet can be a very interesting place. He prints out a few of the images he finds, taking great care to hide them under his mattress later. They do nothing for him, but they might be able to help Oliver.

Then he reads. He reads everything he can find to read about gay sex, how it works, what they do, how it’s different from straight sex, and the word that stays with him is ‘prostate’. 

As the precocious little shit that he is, it’s absolutely clear to Jacob what he has to do. 

Oliver’s parents both work late, so the following day Jacob goes home with him after school. They stop at the supermarket on the way. Cucumbers seem far too big for what Jacob has in mind, as do carrots. He settles for a pack of medium sized breakfast sausages. They will do nicely.

When they reach Oliver’s house, they park themselves in the front room with the curtains drawn. 

‘Okay,’ says Jacob, pulling the pack of sausages out of his rucksack. ‘So here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna put a sausage in your bum.’

Oliver stares at him, his face a mask of shock and incredulity. ‘What?’ he blurts. ‘No fucking way, man! No! I—I won’t do that!’

‘It’s the best way to figure out if you’re gay, cause that’s how gay people have sex!’ Jacob argues.

‘What, by shoving sausages up their bums?’

‘No, no!’ Jacob waves his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be such a silly twat! No, they put their dicks in each other’s bums. See?’ He pulls one of the printed photos out of his rucksack and shows it to Oliver. Oliver blushes and splutters and stares in horror at the photo.

‘Come on!’ Jacob prompts him. ‘Do you wanna find out if you’re gay or not?’

‘Course I do! But . . .’ Oliver trails off. He hands the photo back to Jacob, still red to the tips of his ears. ‘Okay. But if I’m doing this, you have to do it too!’

Jacob narrows his eyes. He doesn’t find the concept of sticking a sausage up his arse especially appealing, but then again, this is a scientific experiment. Perhaps he really must make sacrifices. For science. ‘All right,’ he says at last. ‘I’ll do it too.’

The first thing they discover is that trying to insert something into one’s arse is rather unpleasant and not especially comfortable. There’s no good way of doing it, and no way of looking dignified while you try.

The second thing they discover is that breakfast sausages aren’t particularly solid, and after only a couple of tries, they begin to crumble. When they are left with only two sausages, Jacob is forced to admit that they need a new strategy.

‘Okay, I know what we’ll do,’ he says after a moment’s pause for thought. ‘We’ll put them in the freezer for a while, so they get harder.’

They play video games for the hour it takes for the two remaining sausages to freeze. Then they try again.

Jacob remembers far too late what happens when you lick a fence post in winter. They each manage to push their sausage in half an inch or so before it won’t move any further, and Oliver whimpers with pain. The sausages are stuck, frozen in place, and they won’t budge without causing terrible agony.

‘Shit, shit, shit, ow!’ Oliver whines. ‘What do we do?’ He looks panicked. 

‘We have to find some way to thaw them!’ Jacob looks towards the fireplace. ‘Yes! We’ll light a fire and thaw them out! Or in, depending . . .’ 

‘I’m not allowed to light fires when no one’s home!’ Oliver protests.

‘What, you’d rather have a sausage stuck up your arse when your mum gets back?’ Jacob shoots back. 

Jacob’s sister Elinor, who was a Brownie Guide when she was younger (Jacob himself was kicked out of the Beaver Scouts within a month of joining for aggressive behaviour and questioning authority), has taught him how to build a fire, and he does so now, quickly and efficiently. Before the flames have time to get going properly, though, Oliver stumbles and falls backwards and lands on his bare bottom, _pushing the sausage inside_.

He howls with pain as the frozen-in-place sausage tears free, and Jacob is there in seconds, rolling him over and trying to get the fucking thing out again.

It’s disappeared, and when Jacob, in utter panic and against any kind of judgement tries to get his fingers in there to pull it out, Oliver yelps and the sausage only seems to go deeper. ‘Ow, stop! That hurts!’ Oliver whimpers.

‘Just . . . Just get up on your hands and knees, and try to relax! I have to be able to get it out somehow . . .’

There’s a key in the lock to the front door and they both freeze, eyes wide in trepidation.

There’s no time to get to Oliver’s room. No time to get anywhere at all, really. The bathroom is upstairs. 

‘Quick!’ Oliver hisses, gathering up his trousers and pants from the floor and pulling a blanket off the armrest of the couch. ‘Get under here!’

It’s a large blanket, and they pull it over their exposed legs and discarded clothes, covering everything from the waist down, and sit in front of the fireplace, in which a merry fire is now crackling. They pull Jacob’s rucksack over, hiding the gay photo printout deep in its depths, and pretend to do homework as Oliver’s mother pokes her head into the front room and sees them.

‘Oh! Hello, Jacob.’ She looks at the fireplace and frowns. ‘Ollie, what have I told you about the fireplace?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones,’ says Jacob. ‘It’s my fault. I was really cold so I lit a fire. Oliver told me not to.’ He tries his best to look ashamed. It seems to work.

‘Well, I may have to speak to your mother about that,’ Mrs. Jones informs him, but she doesn’t sound very angry. ‘Do you boys need any help?’

‘No, mum, we’re fine,’ Oliver mumbles. His face is very red. His mother does not seem to notice. Instead, she comes into the room and sits down in the sofa to read the evening paper. 

‘Shit,’ Jacob murmurs under his breath. ‘Can’t you make her go away?’

‘How?’ Oliver is panting slightly, eyes darting back and forth. ‘Jacob, it feels weird. It feels—’ His eyes widen and he looks down. Jacob looks down as well and discovers that _something_ is making a tent of the blanket between Oliver’s legs.

‘Oliver, how can you be hard now?’ Jacob hisses through gritted teeth. ‘Get rid of it!’

‘And how do you suggest I do that?’

‘The usual way, you wanker!’ Jacob retorts.

‘What if she notices?’

‘What’s the big deal? Guys wank off all the time!’ Jacob’s own mother has walked in on him loads of times. It’s never really been an issue. He should start putting up a sign, really, as that will be far less awkward. _Do not disturb! Wanking in progress!_

‘Yeah, but . . .’ Oliver bites his lip and pushes his glasses up his nose, pretending to be deeply interested in geometry. ‘Okay, but you have to do it too!’

‘What? Why!’

‘I am _not_ going down alone! This was _your_ stupid idea!’

‘She’ll think I’m gay too!’

‘Good!’

Jacob sighs. In his twelve-year-old mind, there’s nothing else to it. They need to get rid of Oliver’s problem if they’re going to get out of this. They both reach under the blanket and try to get themselves off.

Jacob has little reaction, as he knew he would, but Oliver seems to be doing well. When his breathing becomes laboured, however, his mother looks over at him and asks, ‘Ollie, what are you doing?’

‘Nothing, mum!’ Oliver insists, voice slightly higher than normal. ‘Just geometry!’ He bites his lip and breathes through his nose. It doesn’t make his breathing any quieter.

‘Jesus wept, Oliver, will you pack it in?’ Jacob whispers. ‘She’s gonna figure it out!’

Then, for a glorious moment, it seems like they’re about to get a break. Oliver’s mother gets up, and heads for the doorway, but then she trips over the blanket, and several things happen at once.

The blanket comes loose, revealing two twelve-year-olds with no trousers on, grasping their own dicks, and one very squashed sausage between Jacob’s legs.

Oliver ejaculates.

The end of the blanket lands in the fireplace, and it goes up in flame. 

Right then, the fire feels like the least of their worries.

* * *

When Jacob’s mum shows up at A&E half an hour later, her son’s penis is bandaged and he’s holding an ice pack to it. The burn is only minor. Oliver is still in with the doctor, getting a by now entirely thawed sausage removed from his rectum. Mr. Jones is with him, while Mrs. Jones is keeping Jacob company in the adjoining examination room.

She explains to Jacob’s mum what’s happened, and to Jacob’s deep humiliation the two women laugh at them. 

Jacob supposes, even as his ears burn and he thinks that he will never touch himself again for as long as he lives (a promise he’ll only manage to keep until next Tuesday when he wakes up with a stiffy for unknown reasons), that laughter is the best reaction he could have hoped for.

* * *

There are some things that two boys cannot experience together without growing closer (or, alternately, killing each other), and being caught with sausages up their arses wanking under a blanket is one of those. The two count themselves lucky that their parents don’t decide to separate them after their brief encounter with destruction, and business continues as usual. Well, mostly as usual. Sometimes, Oliver stares at Jacob when he doesn’t think that Jacob notices. Sometimes, he looks at Jacob while he speaks but doesn’t seem to hear a word he says, eyes fixed to his moving lips. They never talk about whether or not Oliver is gay. They don’t really need to.

It isn’t until a year later that Jacob finally lets Oliver kiss him.

Oliver’s staying over. They’re on Jacob’s bed, reading comic books, and Oliver suddenly puts his away, rolls over to face Jacob and stares at him until he feels compelled to put down his Spiderman and meet his best friend’s blue-eyed gaze.

‘Yes?’ Jacob asks pointedly. ‘Is there something you want?’

Oliver sighs heavily and frowns, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Have you ever kissed anyone?’ he asks at last.

Jacob raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Do you really think I would kiss someone and not tell _you_ about it?’ He doesn’t ask if Oliver’s kissed anyone. He knows full well that he hasn’t. They look at each other for a really long time, and then Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘Do you wanna kiss me, Ollie?’

Oliver blushes deep crimson and looks away. Then he glances at Jacob through transparent eyelashes. ‘Maybe?’ he mumbles. 

Jacob sighs. He doesn’t much want to kiss Oliver. He doesn’t much want to kiss anyone. He doesn’t get the point of kissing, doesn’t get the point of sex (at least not with anyone but his right hand), and definitely doesn’t get the point of relationships. In spite of all this, he says, ‘Go on, then. Get it over with.’

Oliver licks his lips and scoots a little closer. Jacob wonders about changing his mind, but now Oliver’s warm breath is on his face and his blue eyes are wide and Jacob can see his pulse racing in his neck. Then Oliver takes his glasses off, shuts his eyes and moves in for the kill.

His lips are soft, softer than Jacob would like, and he kisses hesitantly, almost robotically. It’s airy, and there’s no substance to it, and Jacob grunts in frustration and grabs Oliver by the back of the neck, kissing him back, hard, in an attempt to make this stupid exercise make some kind of sense. He sticks his tongue inside Oliver’s mouth, and Oliver actually _whimpers_.

Oliver mimics Jacob’s movements and grabs him by the back of the neck as well. Then he slides his fingers into his hair and _pulls_ , and something suddenly happens. It takes Jacob so much by surprise that he stops moving his lips and his tongue, stops doing anything at all, because suddenly he _feels_ something.

When Oliver realises that Jacob has stopped responding, he stops kissing him and lets go, staring at him in wide-eyed confusion. ‘What’s wrong? I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘No,’ Jacob interrupts him. ‘No, it’s not . . . Do you think you could—that thing, with the hair, do you think you could do that again?’

‘You mean . . . Pull your hair? You want me to pull your hair?’

Jacob nods vigorously. ‘Yeah,’ he breathes. ‘If—Yeah. I’d like that.’ He feels his cheeks flush.

Oliver does as he’s told, pulling at Jacob’s hair and kissing him again, harder this time, and Jacob is actually breathless the next time they come up for air—so much so that he has to stop to consider whether he needs his inhaler. He doesn’t.

He looks at Oliver, who is grinning now, looking smug in spite of his blue rubber band braces, and for the first time in his life, Jacob gets the point of kissing.

‘Can we do that more?’ Oliver asks him.

Jacob nods, slowly, smiling back. ‘Yeah, go on.’

* * *

Oliver is not the first person Jacob sucks off. That honour goes to Michael Mackenzie, who is seventeen and buff and rides a motorcycle. They have mutual friends, and are smoking behind the supermarket one night when Jacob is nearly fifteen. As the rest of the group go their separate ways, only Jacob and Michael remain, chatting idly about nothing very much and moving steadily closer to one another. Michael gives Jacob a light. Jacob puts his hand over Michael’s and doesn’t let go when the fag is lit, holding eye contact until Michael finally looks away, muttering something vague about the weather. Then Jacob kisses him.

They hide behind a dumpster, and Jacob enjoys the feeling of Michael’s large hands in his hair. He refuses Michael’s offer of reciprocation, hops on his bicycle and goes home. He and Michael won’t speak again until years later when they will have an ill advised one night stand. The fantasy is better than the reality will be.

* * *

Jacob and Elinor usually go to their father, who lives in a cottage a good hour outside town, together every other weekend, but one weekend every other month Jacob goes on his own, to spend ‘guy time’ with his dad. This usually involves doing much the same stuff they do when Elinor is with them (fishing, playing with the dogs, hiking). One such weekend in April when Jacob is fifteen, however, Jacob’s dad is called away for an emergency environmental survey in Wales. He asks if Jacob would like to come with him, but Jacob declines. It’s nice to have a whole house to himself for once.

When his father is gone, he calls Oliver, who takes the hour long bus ride out. An empty house is a rare opportunity—one too good to be wasted. While he waits, Jacob showers and gets everything ready. It’s a testament to his low opinion of his best friend—or is it boyfriend now?—that, even after nearly four years of friendship, he still doesn’t trust him to know what he’s doing.

Oliver’s been here many times before, and makes his own way to the cottage. The bus stop is only ten minutes away. Jacob greets him at the door in nothing but pyjama bottoms, and Oliver blushes furiously. Jacob’s hair is still wet from his shower.

He gets straight down to it. ’So, I was thinking we might try and fuck.’

Oliver stares at him for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing. ‘I’m trying to think of a way that could have been less romantic, and it’s just not coming!’

Jacob purses his lips. ‘Stop being such a fucking girl! I mean it.’

The other boy abruptly stops laughing and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘What, you’re really serious?’ He wets his lips with his tongue. ‘You . . . You actually wanna have sex?’

They’ve been close to it several times, but so far they haven’t gone any further than giving each other hand-jobs, except on one memorable occasion where Jacob tried out on Oliver what he did to Michael that time behind the dumpster, to great success. Usually, Oliver’s the one who pushes for it, and Jacob is the one who says no.

‘Bedroom,’ Jacob tells him.

He’s got condoms and vaseline. They’re both virgins, but that’s no reason not to be careful, Jacob reasons. Besides, if the Internet is telling him the truth, without a condom Oliver is likely to come before they even have time to get started properly, and what will be the fun in that?

Jacob takes off his pyjama bottoms and lies back on the bed, stark naked and propped up on his elbows. He raises his chin and fixes his eyes on Oliver, issuing a non-verbal challenge. Oliver takes off his glasses and his jumper and t-shirt, leaving his jeans on and crawling up on the bed. He’s on hands and knees above Jacob, blue eyes flickering between Jacob’s eyes and curved lips. Then he grabs Jacob by the hair and kisses him.

He’s gotten better at this. Harder and firmer. His tongue is more insisting, his hands now larger and stronger and more capable of the things that get Jacob going. Pulling his hair, squeezing his arm, pinching, pushing, holding him down. 

If Jacob were more idealistic and less pragmatic, and if he examined and analysed himself as thoroughly as he does the world around him, he would think that this is really fucked up. That getting turned on is a real fucking insane response to physical pain. But he’s not, and he doesn’t, and when Oliver bites his neck and pinches his nipple, the way Jacob has taught him, Jacob’s cock springs to attention.

He tries to guide Oliver through it, which is easier said than done since his own knowledge is mostly theoretical. It’s messy and very awkward (‘No, you need more vaseline. Careful! Hang on . . . Yeah, like that, just, wait—’), but finally Oliver is naked too, and Jacob is prepped, and Oliver’s condom-clad dick is poised at Jacob’s entrance. His wide blue eyes search Jacob’s face as if asking for permission.

‘What are you fucking waiting for, you ponce?’ Jacob snaps. ‘Get on with it!’

Oliver does. He swears loudly as he pushes inside (Oliver isn’t half as liberal with his language as Jacob, so when he swears it’s generally with good reason), and Jacob hisses in pain.

‘You all right?’ Oliver asks him frantically.

‘Yeah, keep going!’ Jacob grabs hold of his cock and begins to stroke himself slowly. ‘ _Fuck_!’ he groans through gritted teeth. 

In the end, neither of them lasts very long, and when Jacob comes, Oliver’s thrusts get really fucking painful (beyond what Jacob finds enjoyable) and Jacob holds his breath. Thankfully, Oliver doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds after that and pulls out almost at once.

They lie side by side, dazed but mostly sated. It wasn’t great, Jacob reflects. Mostly, it felt weird. But it hurt really nicely. He touches his fingers to his sore arsehole and discovers that he’s bleeding slightly. ‘Fuck. I’m gonna have a shower. You wanna come too?’

Oliver nods. ‘Yeah, okay.’

After cleaning themselves up, they dress in pyjamas and sit on Jacob’s bed in awkward silence. Oliver wants to hold his hand. Jacob tells him to fuck off. Then they play video games for the rest of the day until Jacob’s dad comes home.

About ten years from now, Oliver will tell Jacob in the kitchen of a friend’s house during the pre-drinks for a stag night that he was the shittest boyfriend ever. Words cannot express how few fucks Jacob will give about that. Later that night, they’ll shag one last time and then never speak to each other again.


	2. Marcus

There aren’t many things in his life that Marcus can control, but he can control this.

‘Go on, then!’ he tells the boy before him. ‘Big, fat fucker like you shouldn’t have any trouble beating down a skinny twerp like me, eh? Get on with it!’ He smirks. ‘Or haven’t you got the bollocks for it?’

The kid is two years older than Marcus and twice his size, but now he looks uncertain. A schoolyard predator, he’s obviously not used to prey that talks back. 

‘I know what you are,’ Marcus continues. ‘You’re a limp-dicked, pea-brained fucking twatwaffle, balls the size of peanuts, too fucking stupid and too much of a coward to come at me on equal terms. So get fucked!’

He has it down to a precise art. Using words to confuse, confound, control. The bullies don’t know how to deal with his quick wit, don’t know how to respond to his insults or threats. And in the rare instances where they don’t back down, Marcus can always leg it. Usually, he doesn’t have to. He stands his ground, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

A slow clapping starts somewhere to his right and he turns his head. A fifteen-year-old whose name Marcus thinks might be Adam is stepping out of the crowd with an amused smile on his face. ‘Bravo! Well done!’ He stands next to Marcus and faces the bully. ‘You heard him, Bradley, fuck off.’

Marcus scowls at the boy next to him. He was handling the situation just fine on his own, _thank you_. Adam (Marcus is quite certain now that that _is_ his name) smiles calmly. He’s about Marcus’s height, though less skinny. He’s staring down Bradley the bully, and then Bradley turns around and lumbers off like a bear who just got slapped on the nose. Adam turns to Marcus and grins.

‘Really, well fucking done. Bradley’s a fucking moron.’

Marcus narrows his eyes. ‘I didn’t need your help!’ he snarls.

‘Course you didn’t.’ Adam’s eyes are fixed to Marcus’s, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. ‘I’ve just been wanting to talk to you, is all. Seen you in church.’

Of course. Another fucking Catholic.

‘I hope you don’t think that means we have something in common,’ Marcus scoffs, looking away. ‘I only go cause my parents make me.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ 

Marcus shakes his head and turns his back. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he mutters, but Adam’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder.

‘Hang on! I’d like to talk to you more.’

Marcus shakes the hand off. ‘Fuck off!’

‘No.’ Adam’s voice is firm and calm and Marcus turns to face him again.

‘Look, I don’t know who you think you are or what you’re playing at, but I don’t do friends, all right? I like being on my own, and I don’t like people fucking me about, so just get stuffed, yeah?’

‘Who said anything about friends?’

The look Adam is giving him stirs something, somewhere. Something primal and undernourished and absolutely terrifying. Marcus takes one step back, licking his lips, and takes in Adam’s soft blond locks, brown eyes and lightly tanned face, and for the first time in his life he _wants_ something.

‘Fuck off,’ he says again, and then he runs away. Because this is not something that he can control, and that terrifies him most of all.

* * *

One thing that Marcus _can_ control is what he eats. For instance, when he gets home from school that day, he eats an apple, but he declines his mother’s offer of tea later on, claiming that he isn’t hungry. And he isn’t, really. He’s stopped feeling hunger, most of the time. He stays in his room for the rest of the afternoon, doing homework. At thirteen, Marcus already works hard at everything. It’s true, what he told Adam. He doesn’t really do friends. (Not since primary school. Ethan fucked off down south with his family when they were eleven, and though they promised to stay in touch, they haven’t spoken since.)

Which is why he’s so surprised when the telephone rings around six, and his mother shouts that it’s for him.

It’s Adam. He wants to meet up and hang out for a bit. Marcus is suspicious, but in the end he reluctantly agrees.

Marcus’s working class neighbourhood is not, perhaps, the safest, but he and Adam end up wandering around it anyway, just talking, breath misting in the chilly February night air. Adam tells him that he admires the way he deals with bullies. That words are so much more effective than fists, and that Marcus can go far with such strong rhetorical skills. Marcus laughs and calls him mental, but he can’t help but feel a slight swell of pride that someone seems to give a shit.

They stop at a vandalised and deserted playground and sit on the swings to have a smoke.

‘You’re very angry, aren’t you?’ It’s not really a question, but Adam seems to expect an answer all the same.

Marcus shrugs, dropping tobacco ash into the sand beneath the swing. ‘Don’t see how you’re not. Living in this piss town, nothing but Catholics and delinquents.’ He doesn’t go deeper, doesn’t let on about what goes on at home, but he has the distinct impression that Adam somehow knows anyway. The look he gets doesn’t feel like pity, but Marcus can’t be sure. ‘What do you want with me?’ he asks after a few moments, daring to meet Adam’s gaze.

Adam gives him a lopsided smile. ‘I like you,’ he says.

‘Why? I don’t like _you_.’

‘I know. That’s okay. You don’t like anyone.’

Marcus stands up, putting out his fag with his boot, and Adam follows suit, placing a hand on his shoulder.

‘If you don’t let go I’ll rip off your fucking arm and beat you to death with it!’ Marcus growls.

‘Not your best line,’ says Adam. His hand doesn’t go anywhere. Instead he looks around and, seeing no one, pushes Marcus back against the frame of the swing set and kisses him.

It’s the first time anyone has kissed Marcus, and he is so surprised he forgets to breathe at first. Then surprise is replaced with fury. This isn’t okay. This is something he should be able to control. He pushes Adam away with more strength than his skinny body should by rights be able to possess.

‘Fuck off, you poof!’ he shouts, and runs off home without another word. 

When he gets there, his father is home, and drunk, and gives him an earful about being out late and how he should be doing his homework (which he has already finished). Marcus goes to bed, lying still in the darkness and trying to ignore the angry shouts from next door (‘How dare you let your son run around the neighbourhood at all hours? You’re such a useless bitch, wish I’d never married you, someone else might have been able to give me better children!’). He doesn’t cry. He never cries.

* * *

Several weeks pass before Marcus speaks to Adam again. In that time, he doesn’t go a single day without his mind wandering back to the incident in the playground. At first, he assumes this feeling in the pit of his stomach to be anger, disgust or fear, but when he wakes up for the third time in as many days with a sweaty brow and sticky pants from dreams of Adam’s lips, he is forced to concede that he may have misinterpreted that feeling.

Then, one day in March, he sees Adam walking across the school yard and, before he’s properly aware of having done so, has grabbed him by the upper arm and is dragging him away over to the blue schoolyard fence, where he lets go and stares resolutely down at the ground.

Adam looks at him curiously, head cocked to one side. ‘Yes?’ he says, after a few moments’ silence.

Marcus raises his gaze to his eyes and glares at him angrily. ‘That thing,’ he says. ‘The thing that you did.’

Adam smirks. ‘You mean when I—’

‘Shut up!’ Marcus looks around nervously. ‘I want . . . I want to do that again. Not here!’ he hurries to add. ‘Just . . . And you don’t get to decide how or when or anything like that, it’s, I’m the one who—It’s got to be my choice. Just so we’re totally fucking clear about that.’

Adam nods slowly. ‘Yeah, all right. So, how and when?’ He pauses. ‘And where? You could come to my place.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. After school.’

‘Okay.’ Marcus hesitates. ‘Bye.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

* * *

Adam’s house is bigger and nicer than Marcus’s. Adam has his own bedroom, which is impressive enough on its own in a family of six. He has two older brothers and one younger sister. The eldest of his brothers has gone away to university.

‘Go on, then,’ Adam says when they’re finally both sitting on his bed. ‘You came here for a reason, didn’t you?’

Marcus only hesitates for a moment. Then he leans in and plants his lips on Adam’s. He pushes the older boy back into the pillows and climbs on top of him, testing everything. Adam’s lips are fuller and softer than his own. When they open, his teeth are slightly crooked, and Marcus can feel it with his tongue. Adam’s tongue is long and wet and very warm. His mouth is hot and tastes sweet. Marcus doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but the response he gets is encouraging. Adam puts his arms around his waist and draws him down towards him, kissing him back. It feels good. 

When Marcus begins to move his hips against him, Adam breaks the kiss and laughs. ‘Whoa, there. Slow up.’

Marcus sits up and glares down at him. ‘What for?’

Adam grins and shakes his head. ‘Jesus, I fucking love Catholic boys . . . So repressed, starved, up for fucking anything.’

‘ _You’re_ a Catholic boy,’ Marcus reminds him. 

‘Yeah, but I’m not typical.’

‘Neither am I!’

‘No need to get defensive, I’m just saying.’

Marcus hesitates. ‘You’ve . . . done this before then, have you?’

‘Well, yeah. You didn’t think you were the first boy I’ve kissed, did you?’

‘Of course I fucking didn’t!’ Marcus crosses his arms and stares at the wall. ‘How many?’

‘Loads,’ Adam tells him nonchalantly.

Marcus glances sideways at him. ‘And, more than kissing?’

‘Some.’ Adam sits up as well. ‘I’m not gonna do that to you, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re fucking thirteen, you stupid little twat.’ Adam smiles.

‘I’ll be fourteen soon.’

‘Yeah, and I’ll be sixteen. I’ll still be way older than you, and I’ll be in college.’

‘Anyway,’ Marcus huffs, ‘I’d be the one doing the doing, fuckwit.’

Adam smirks at him and ruffles his hair. ‘That so?’

‘Yeah. No one’s gonna fuck me.’

‘Why do you have to be in charge all the fucking time?’ Adam asks.

Marcus shrugs. 

Adam presses on. ‘You seriously need to relax. Let go. Stop trying to control everything and let shit happen.’

‘Never.’

* * *

That turns out to be a lie. About half a year later, Adam invites him along to a party at a friend’s house. It’s the first time Marcus drinks. He doesn’t really want to, because of what happens when his dad drinks, but everyone else is doing it, and everyone cool is here. So Marcus drinks.

And he loves it. He loves how it enables him to so completely not give a fuck. And so he drinks more, and he smokes a lot of cigarettes, and talks to cool people, and feels like a cool person. Then Adam drags him aside, into an empty, dark bedroom, and they snog for a good while. Adam asks him to suck him off. Marcus says no at first, but he does it anyway.

It’s the first time Marcus sucks dick. It’s not very pleasant. Adam comes down his throat, and Marcus, very drunk at this point, vomits all over the carpet. Adam does not reciprocate.

Marcus will never think of what happened in that bedroom as non-consensual, and will claim with his dying breath that he was in full control of his faculties, but a permanent stain in someone’s bedroom carpet will proclaim otherwise. Marcus just never really thinks about it, but it’s the last time he speaks to Adam, and the last time he touches another boy in nearly two years.

* * *

Marcus meets Julian in college. Julian has wide, blue eyes and dark, curly hair. He’s a bit older, but much smaller than Marcus—lithe and graceful and adorable—and Marcus allows himself to think that Julian is the most gorgeous human being he’s ever seen. Within a couple of months, he’s completely fucking soppy about him, and they’ve barely spoken two words to one another. They only have Maths together. All Julian’s A-levels are sciences, while Marcus is taking Social Studies and English and History. 

Still, he’s infatuated. He fantasises about Julian, imagines his stupidly wide blue eyes and his red lips as he comes. He’s never wanted anyone this badly before, and that scares the shit out of him. He’d be willing to lose control, if it was for Julian.

He’s given the opportunity to do just that at a party in November. There is alcohol involved, and then, somehow, when the party’s over some time around two in the morning, he finds himself alone with Julian, standing outside in the freezing cold air. Julian doesn’t have a jacket. Feeling like the hero in some stupid fucking rom-com, Marcus offers him his and asks which way he’s going. 

Turns out Julian’s house is on the way to Marcus’s. What luck.

’This isn’t a good neighbourhood to walk home alone in,’ Julian tells him when they’re outside his house, taking off Marcus’s jacket and handing it back to him. They’ve barely spoken during the whole ten minute walk. ‘Why don’t you kip at the end of my bed or something?’

They’re both drunk. That’s Marcus’s excuse when kipping at the end of Julian’s bed turns into sleeping almost naked, pressed up against his back with his lips in Julian’s hair. When they wake up the next morning and kiss drowsily for a full ten minutes, Marcus has run out of excuses. He also has no good excuse for telling Julian that he’s the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen and that he’s wanted to kiss him since the first time he saw him.

Marcus never thought that his first time would involve him on his back, and a boy much shorter than him fucking him senseless while whispering to him to keep quiet. But that’s what happens. Julian clearly knows what he’s doing, and though it’s awkward and Marcus doesn’t really know how to behave, and it hurts quite a bit, it also feels amazing. Julian is fucking amazing, and Marcus is totally, utterly in love.

He surrenders himself completely. He throws caution to the wind, and lets himself get carried away by this boy. He feels lucky, and happy, and in love, and he’s never felt so good before.

Which is why he crashes all the harder when, a few weeks later, Julian rejects him. In a moment of post-coital insanity, Marcus tells Julian that he loves him, and Julian laughs at him. He _laughs_. ‘Piss off, Marcus!’ he says. ‘We’ve just been having fun, haven’t we? I mean, for fuck’s sake! If I loved every guy I’ve shagged, I’d have at least ten boyfriends at any given time!’

Marcus breaks, then. He feels himself shatter to a million fucking pieces, and suddenly he just wants to hurt Julian. Wants to beat him, or rape him, even, make him his bitch. He wants to show him that he can’t do this to him, can’t treat him like this, and those thoughts scare him more than anything else ever has before.

So instead he shouts at Julian that he’s a fucking cunt, and that if he ever so much as tries to talk to him again, Marcus will tear off his fucking cock and stuff it in his ear and then fuck him with a fucking shovel. Then he runs away, and promises himself that he’s never going to let himself love anyone else ever again. Many years later, he’ll realise what an incredible coincidence it is that the only other two people he’s ever allowed himself to love also have names that start with the letter J, and wonder if maybe this is some kind of subconscious fucking manifestation of his still-broken heart. Soon after, he will dismiss the thought and decide that he’s being a whiny pussy and should pull himself together, and never think of it again.

Over the course of the next couple of years, Marcus shags a number of people, most of them strangers, and he’s the one doing the doing, just like he told Adam he would be those years ago. He holds them down, and he fucks them, and he enjoys the feeling of control, of being in charge, and he promises never to let anyone dominate him again. This he can control. His cock, and his heart. (Ironically, once he gets to university, where it’s much easier to find willing, experienced boys, he will be almost celibate—aside from a couple of drunken and rather anonymous encounters, one of which turns out to be a girl, during fresher’s week—until his final year.)

* * *

The first time Marcus stands up to his father is only a couple of weeks after Julian dumps him. It’s a Thursday, and his dad comes home as drunk as ever, shouting and swearing and making demands. When Marcus ignores him, Brian Allen advances on him, yelling that he wishes Marcus had never been born, and that his mother is such a useless cunt for not being able to give him any more children.

It is then, faced with this wild-eyed, screaming lunatic, that Marcus realises that he’s taller than this man now. He’s bigger, and he can shout just as loud, and he is so fucking done with being anyone’s bitch.

‘Don’t you dare have a fucking go at Ma!’ 

Marcus’s father is so taken aback by this outburst that he falls silent at once.

‘She has always done her best, and she’s done everything you’ve asked, and it’s not her fucking fault that she can’t have more kids! You, on the other hand, you’re just a fucking bully; a self-serving, alcoholic cunt who has to verbally abuse women and kids to make himself feel good! Does it make you feel like a big man? Does it? Well, fuck you, and if you so much as look at her wrong again in my presence, so help me I will eat you up and sick you back out you _pathetic little man_!’

His dad stands there, in the middle of the kitchen, opening and closing his mouth like some parody of a fish, before he shuffles off to bed and falls asleep almost immediately. The incident is never mentioned again, and Marcus doesn’t have to explode like that again until nearly a year later when his father has apparently forgotten about the first time and tries to shout his son into submission again. It does not work.

When it becomes time for Marcus to leave for university, his father hugs him awkwardly and tells him to call his mother often, but that he doesn’t need to see him outside of Christmas, and for the summer holidays he had better get himself a job. Marcus agrees to these terms. He is indifferent to the old fucker now. He doesn’t matter to him one bit. Nothing really does, anymore.


End file.
